Typing With Wet Claws: In The Pink Edition

February 26, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. I look grumpy in today’s picture, because Anty took my picture while I was washing. I think that was not the most polite thing she could have done, but she is dominant, so I guess it must be okay. She might also still be somewhat cranky herself because I, um, did my stuff after everybody was in bed, so she had to get out of bed to clean it. At least I let her know I was doing stuff. I am considerate that way. I am also considerate in talking about her writing things before I talk about anything else. Well, except for what I already talked about, because I already said that.

Anty had two posts at Heroes and Heartbreakers this week. First, she talked about what happened with Ichabod and Abbie, on Sleepy Hollow. Can you believe the monsters of the week got to have smoochy times before Ichabod and Abbie do? Talk about a scary episode. That is here, and it looks like this:

Then, she wrote about what happened between Michonne and Rick on The Walking Dead. Anty says that show is not really about zombies, but about people and human relationships. This episode, it is especially so. That post is here, and it looks like this:

Anty has a lot of articles and posts on other sites, like her weekly discussions on Buried Under Romance. Last week’s discussion was on multicultural romance. Anty thinks books about lovers from different backgrounds can be very interesting, and both couples in the shows she recapped this week would fit into that subgenre. It is here and it looks like this:

She is working on a new page that will have links to all of her posts on other sites, so readers can find them easily. I do not think Anty will mind if I say she is not the most technologically minded person, so please be patient with her.

This picture shows what Anty sees when she is working from her comfy chair. I need to come around to between the Starbucks cup and the notebook and aim my big green eyes over the edge of the desk if I want her to see me. If she does not pay attention to me there, then I go around to the other side, which you cannot see from here. When I go to the other side, she knows I really want her attention. It is usually for food, but sometimes, I want a scratch. That is one thing about writers; they can work pretty much anywhere. When Anty works at home, she is often in her comfy chair, with a special desk that fits in her lap. Sometimes, she will write in longhand at the kitchen counter. When she does that, I like to be a ninja kitty and get reallyreallyreally close, like actually on her feet close. Then it is always a big surprise when she moves. I run away and come right back. One would think she would be used to this by now.

Please note the pink earbuds in the above picture. Anty works best with music playing, and her music is different for each project. Because Anty has different devices on which she listens to her music, it makes more sense to have a different set of earbuds that stays with each device. Anty did not mean for her electronics to (almost) all be pink, but that is how it turned out, and she’s going with it. The pink earbuds stay with the pink laptop, but before she had those, she had a set of earbuds where the tiny speaker part was pink and the cushions (I do not know what they are called) are black, like the cord. The tiny speaker parts have tiny skulls on them, so Anty really really likes them. She uses them for her phone now, although the phone is white (she will get a case for it, and then it will agree with her pink laptop and pink tablet.) Well, that is, when there are cushions on both speakers. This week, there were not cushions on both speakers.

Anty looked everywhere for the missing cushion, and even took everything out of her computer tote (no small task, that) but could not find it. She had a spare pink cushion, but it would bother her if one cushion was pink and the other was black. Do not even suggest that Mama lend her one of her spare orange cushions. Anty is not a savage. Anty very reluctantly switched those earbuds out for the white earbuds with pink cushions that came with her pink tablet. That all brings us back to my introduction to today’s post. Remember when I told you Anty had to get up to tend my stuff in the middle of the night? That is where the two threads come together.

Because I am a considerate kitty, I pee next to the green chair of evil. It can only be stopped with cat widdle. The previous owners did not have a cat, and they are no longer with us. You do the math. Anty had to move the chair to clean the widdle, and there, in a completely dry and unwiddled portion of the floor, was her missing earbud cushion. You’re welcome. Anty has her cushion back now, but playing with it was fun while it lasted. Do not worry, I will find another toy. I am resourceful like that. It is an important attribute to have, to be a good mews.

Anty needs the computer back now, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain, very truly yours,

Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling
(the kitty, not the book)

More-ning Pages

February 25, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

The rare Thursday entry, the natural product of having Monday’s entry on Wednesday. Blogging three times a week is a discipline that works for me, keeps my brain focused, so when I fall behind, I’m antsy until I’m current again. This entry should do it. Once again, no idea in mind, so winging it for the second day in a row.

Right now, I am in my comfy chair, laptop on lap desk. It’s not raining any longer, though we had a downpour hit shortly before I had to leave the Laundromat, freshly dried laundry in two, Crocs on my feet and raincoat left behind, because it was brilliant sunshine when I left the house. Go figure. “Helpless,” from Hamilton, is playing on my headphones. Very historical romance-y song there, both in setting and content. I have notes for today’s work on Her Last First Kiss, and will likely need to make a timeline, so I can track the progress of important items -what is where, and when?- and I’m looking forward to that.

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morning pages

I normally don’t like to have a lot of bleedover with my notebooks. The notebook above, by Punch Studio (part of my Paris notebook fixation; there is apparently a NY themed version of this same book, and I must have it) is my morning pages book, which means whatever I in my head goes down on that two page spread, and, when I get to the end of the second page, I am done. Doesn’t matter where I am. That’s it for that entry. I got this book in October, and it’s been one two page spread, every day, no matter what. So far, so good.

Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes, those rambles concentrate themselves fairly quickly. Like this morning. I don’t know if it was some alchemical convergence of my free-associating brain, the fact that I had not yet consumed caffeine, the recklessness of putting my Paris travel mug next to my Union Jack mug, which was next to my English muffin pizza breakfast. or what, but novel stuff started spilling onto my pages. I’ll copy it later, into one of the HLFK books, maybe take only notebooks and not laptop to the coffee house later on (though I sweat like an addict in withdrawal at the thought) and track the progression of some objects that are important to the story. Who has the X at what point, what state is it in, and how do we all feel about that?

My blood hums at the thought of this, and -aha, that’s where I’d intended to go in the first place, yay me- diving deep into what needs to be accomplished in a particular scene gives me electric energy. I can do this. I do this. This is what I was created to do. Natural habitat and all that other good stuff. When you’re in the right place, creatively, you know it. I’d originally planned to call this entry something like “Skating on the Surface and Diving Deep,” but if a title makes me cringe, that’s a pretty good indication of what it’s going to to do my readers.

My readers? Ulp. I have readers? That is not what my earning statement says for the last mumblemumble unit of time, but that’s okay. As with any muscle, the more I use my writing muscles, the stronger they get. Which is one of the reasons the disciplines of thrice weekly blogging and morning pages every weekday are disciplines that I want to keep. Doesn’t matter what’s on the page, as long as something is. It’s easy to put it off. Amazingly easy to put it off, but, as my mother always told me, the more I do, the more I will want to do. She was right. When I let myself into Hero and Heroine’s world, I want to stay there. As a family member, as it were, not an intruder or even a guest, which is one of the reasons I know I’m writing the right book, at the right time, and in the right way.

these notebooks have nothing to do with HLFK

at least I think they don’t.

These notebooks don’t have anything to do with Her Last First Kiss (at least I think they don’t) but they spoke to me, and thus, they had to come home. There will be hackage, possibly over the weekend. Hacking a notebook is an intuitive process for me, one that lets me dive happily into the realm of sticky notes and drawing frames, letting color dictate my path, the feel of the book, its covers, its pages, the spiral binding, in the case of the above, tell me what they want to be. Total pantsing on notebook hacking, which makes for a good contrast with how I need to know things about the characters and stories to fully grasp what I’m doing with a novel in progress.

My minimum for these winging it entries is seven hundred words (word count is not a problem with me for nonfiction or editing; go figure) so I am going to wrap this for now. There’s my Buried Under Romance discussion post to write, and then I have a date with Hero and Heroine. I think they’re going to show me an interesting time.

Midweek Rambles

February 24, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Rainy Wednesday here, and the fact that I’m only now getting to the first blog entry of the week should be an indicator of how things have been going. The new addition to my workspace is Hedwig, (thanks, Kara!) who has shot up to mascot status in short order. Lift his head off, and he’s a flash drive. He will soon be filled with novel stuffs.

No idea what I want to write about here, so I’m going to wing it. One of the most vivid rainy day memories I have carried for a long time reaches all the way back to fifth grade. We’d recently moved from Bedford Village to Pound Ridge, and I had a playdate with Elizabeth A, to keep us both occupied and our mothers sane for the rain-soaked afternoon. I remember I had a corduroy pantsuit (it was the seventies; don’t judge me, and yes, my mom picked out my outfit) that day, red with a flower print all over it. The legs were too long, so the hems of the trousers (I preferred skirts even back then, but mom said, sooo…)were damp the rest of the day.

We spent the afternoon in Elizabeth’s room. I remember Barbies and some imaginative play, some discussion of the new TV show we both liked, Wonder Woman, probably my first fandom, though I didn’t know what fandom was at the time. Elizabeth had a Chow dog, who had particular tastes in what interactions he would allow with what humans, but he always liked me. I don’t remember his name, or the name of Elizabeth’s older brother. I don’t remember many particulars of that day, but I remember the day itself, and the memory is a good one. Elizabeth A, wherever you are, I hope you do, too.

On this rainy day, years later, there’s imaginative play still. Now, I call it writing, and it’s work as much as it is play, which suits me fine. No red corduroy pantsuit, thankfully, and I’m writing this from my favorite coffee house instead of a friend’s bedroom, but the day has some of the same feel to it. Not that I know exactly what the connection is, but some things become a part of us, and come to the fore when they will.

Today is also the first anniversary of the passing of Bertrice Small, still a favorite author and my entrée into the world of historical romance. I’d wanted, as many Small fans, to dive into some rereading when we got the sad news, and, at the moment, I’d tried, but I couldn’t make the connection. Not a good feeling, but, at times, the best thing we can do is let the feelings do their jobs. I don’t know when I got it in my head that I would intentionally step back from reading an author whose work had been that important to me, or when the idea arose that I would resume on the first anniversary of her passing. Maybe it’s a form of literary mourning? I’m not going to question that one.

Once I knew I wanted to resume on a certain date, everything fit. I would pick up one of her books on that date, and I would read it, but which one? With forty-nine titles from which to choose (well, less than that, as the Lara books are in storage, and I don’t own the Channel titles) the options were too many. N’s advice, “make a decision,” came to me then, and I did. I decided I wouldn’t decide. I turned to my Lionesses at my Facebook group, The Lion and Thistle, and placed my choice in their capable hands.

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this is the one

Some of the suggestions, I’d expected. Skye O’Malley (the book, not the kitty) is my favorite, and The Kadin was the first historical romance I ever read. I know those books, can quote them in places, so re-reading them would be as much remembering as experiencing the story. The other choices offered, Deceived, and The Border Lord’s Bride, I haven’t read as much. Since my copy of Deceived seems to have gone walkabout (will be reaching out to the library system and/or used bookstores soon) my choice became clear. I hadn’t remembered, until I plucked my copy from my special Small bookcase, that this was the second story in the Border Chronicles, not the first, but since it’s an extremely loose connection, I’m letting that go. I can read the prior title, A Dangerous Love, later, if I want. I did put my choice in others’ hands, after all.

As with that long-ago rainy afternoon, I remember the book more in general than in specific, and it’s a different experience. The last time I read this book, it was 2007. A few things have happened since then. My critical mind is along for the ride, and has some issues with tell-y passages and instances of passive voice, but the voice itself, that’s as familiar as I remember, a welcome back to the things that drew me to historical romance in the first place. It’s also made me schedule reading time in my day, something I’d wanted to do, but put off actually doing, but if I want to make time to read all that I want and need to read, there has to be time where that’s all that I’m doing. This is different from pleasure-only reading; it’s also research.

library haul; must organize

In a way, that’s my equivalent of the art student camped out in front of the master’s painting, sketchbook in hand or canvas on easel. What did the master do? How did they do it? That thing that was never recorded, what was it? Can I do it, too? What does it look like when I do their thing, my way? Reading time, writing time, headphones in, laptop on, paper and pen at the ready. Let’s do this.

In Here, I Rule The World

February 17, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

Right now, I am in a rotten mood. I mean really rotten. Things started early. I woke, exhausted, thinking it was about 2AM, so glass of water, trip to the water closet, and I’m good for four more hours. No such luck. 6:45. Well, crud. Tend cat, dispense Real Life Romance Hero’s morning pharmeceuticals, perform ritual albutions. Agree to disagree with hair about its direction for the day. Breakfast…okay, breakfast was uneventful, except for Skye leaving a deposit in Real Life Romance Hero’s office, but Housemate took care of that, so the two things even out.

Morning was meant to be for taking care of some routine errands. Obtain clothing from a favorite, reliable retailer. Obtain pen refills from office supply store. Possibly other errands if the first two went quickly. The first two did not go quickly. Both were abject failures, and most women understand the barren wasteland that is a sale at one’s favorite retailer, when there is not one single thing that will fit one’s body and/or color palette. One of those. Housemate fared better, but I left with a case of the grumps. Repeat fruitless mission at office supply store.

Housemate and I did not know Lunch Option A was not going to work out until we were actually there, so went for Lunch Option B instead. Rest of errands had to be put off for unspecified time in the vague future, because I had to get home in time for A) me to make a chat with a critique partner, and B) Housemate to get RLRH to work. No shot at getting in a certain part of the house where I could perform supplementary albutions and renegotiate with hair, and still make it to chat on time, so did the best I could and raced off. Made it with minutes to spare and…open email from critique partner, who could not make chat.

accurate depiction of my mood

This is, of course, the exact second I have my tea ready, notebook and sticky notes arrayed, so I’m committed now, even though I am technically free. We will now cue an instrumental version of “Song of the Lonely Extrovert” to play softly in the background. There are other people in the coffee house, but nobody I can talk to while working, and that makes a difference. Unless the college student scowling at his own laptop is interested in my Scrivener corkboard. I am going to guess that he is not.

I’ve had worse days. Nobody is bleeding or on fire, we have not needed any first responders, and are fed, housed and employed. Even so, the other irritations build. Gaming is a stress reliever for me, and, since my old laptop is currently refusing to play Sims 3, new laptop cannot support it, and we are still looking into other options, I’m going to have to accept the fact that gaming, right now, is not going to happen. Sure, I have Sims Free Play on my phone, but that’s not the same. Not even close. Bleh.

As I told Housemate, what I would like to do is huddle in a corner (under the covers in bed is also acceptable) and mainline ice cream. What I am going to do is crack open that notebook and Scrivener and transcribe some scenes. That, I can do, and it doesn’t require a lot of my brain. Transfer what’s on the page to what’s on the screen. Spend some time in my story world, and deal with Hero and Heroine’s problems instead of my own. I know what has to happen in the tailor scene, but where does the tailor scene actually go? Do I need to plant that plot point seed earlier in the story than where it actually sprouts? How is the balance between Hero scenes and Heroine scenes? Plus the joy of getting immersed in the story.

The rest of the daily inconveniences will still be there when I’m done. It’s not a permanent break from the practical world -one of the reasons I don’t use the word “escape” when I talk about reading or writing fiction; we do still have to deal with those things when we close the book, notebook or file- but it’s a respite, a place where I can order things the way I want, no matter how much time that might take; here, I control time. Heady stuff, when one stops to think about it. Uncap my new fountain pen, open my notebook, and I step back in time, where Hero and Heroine want to know what on earth I am doing to their lives, because it all looks like one giant catastrophe from where they’re standing.

In the end, it will all be worth the trouble. I’ve assured them this book has a happy ending, because that’s what romance novels do. No matter what I throw at them during the story, they will be safe, happy, and together by the end. At the moment, things look pretty sticky for them both, individually and together (not that they’re even thinking much about “together” at this phase of the game, because it’s early days, still) but they’ll thank me for it later. Right now, I’m thankful to them for giving my day some peace. We’ll have to see how the rest of it goes, but, for right now, I rule the (okay, their) world.

On Missing the Boat and Learning to Swim

February 15, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

There’s a lot I want to say today, and I’m still figuring out how to say some of it, so I’m going to throw a bunch down and hope it makes sense. It’s Monday morning, there’s winter weather headed our way here in NY’s capitol region, and my to-do list is scribbled out on my paper mousepad, plum-hued fountain pen ink scrawled atop black gel pen, two round, fuzzy inkstains that show I’m still getting the hang of this fountain pen thing. Husband and Housemate are out of the house, Skye hugging the heater, and time for me to get on with my day. Some of what I want to get out of my head will, no doubt, end up in my free writing notebook. Two pages of that, as early as I can make it in the morning, every weekday, no excuse, no editing. I find that essential to getting my brain into gear.

Blogging is a close second. I want to be real here, and honest, and I want to -well, crud, what’s the word?- keep things suitable for public consumption. Sometimes, that can be a fine line, and as much as I’d like to know what’s going on in the minds of my readers when they read the day’s offering, that’s not a realistic expectation. Once in a while, (okay, more than that) I am going to put my foot in my mouth. Not the easiest thing to accept, especially on days when I wear heels, but part of the human, and writerly condition. Which is as good a place as any to make a segue.

I have missed a lot of boats. I am probably going to miss a lot more. Humans do that, and writers, with our teeming hordes of insecurity, are maybe more likely to do that than others. Maybe creative types on a broader spectrum, but I can only speak from where I am at present. I was twenty-three, newly married, and smack in the middle of an undiagnosed depressive episode when my first rejection letter arrived. The sample I sent had issues. Nothing happens, the editor said, as I still remember, all these years later, but it took me years to remember the other part of the letter. The good part. The “send us something else” part. I didn’t send anything else. Maybe today, I would have plopped myself down and written something else (the book where nothing happens was all I had at the time; I’ve written more since) but, barring my mastery of time travel (the art itself, not the time travel romance that I will figure out the right approach for at some point; writing Her Last First Kiss now, so others have to get in line) going back and changing that is not going to be an option.

There was the opportunity to write an American Revolution historical romance, and that is still something I want to do, but I got to a certain point, and I couldn’t. I’m not going to try and do a differential diagnosis here on that one, but I couldn’t, not that way, and not then. The book wasn’t true anymore (writers of fiction, you know what I mean here) and I was too ashamed to say anything. What was wrong with me? The waters closed over my head. Blub, blub, blub. No more bubbles on the surface.

The time travel, too, diluted by so many other voices that I could no longer hear the hero and heroine who had once been so clear that they flat out quit the story I’d originally planned for them and demanded to be in this one. Collaborations that didn’t pan out, but still have their places in my heart, but may or may not ever come to be, in any form. Miscarried stories by the dozens, and I love them all, still. There are times when “just keep swimming” (sorry, Dory) isn’t going to be enough. There are times when the arms are tired, legs feel like lead, there’s no sight of shore, and that life preserver? Actually a cannonball. These things will happen. Even so, we keep on going.

ink in the water….

The title for this entry came to me this past Saturday, while I was at the Capitol Region Romance Writers meeting, watching the documentary, Love Between the Covers, which I highly recommend, no matter what your experience with the romance genre might be. I have never been so proud to be associated with the women and men of this genre and this industry, all different and diverse, and yet united beneath the same umbrella.

The next day, hunkered inside due to insane wind chill, I cleaned and inked the vintage Mont Blanc I’d found in a box of my dad’s stuff a while back. I hadn’t known I’d need to clean out the old, dried ink before I could fill it with new (metaphor much?) but, thanks to N, I got the chance to do exactly that. Watching decades-old ink, activated by warm water, flow out, mesmerized me. Here were the remnants of my dad’s writing. Notes, most likely, businessy things, maybe some of his philosophical ramblings on yellow legal pads, interoffice memos, maybe a letter or greeting card or two. I didn’t expect the quiet wonder of that, the feeling that it is a changing of the guard for this pen.

It’s mine now. The ink inside is plum instead of black. I think this ink wants to go into those purple notebooks from my last video blog. but still not sure what the focus of those books will be. Or maybe that’s for my purple Pilot Varsity. Or maybe I need to stop being so precious about what ink goes where (but it bothers me to use the wrong ink, so that’s probably a tall order for right now.) but that’s okay, because I have time.

Tying this all together now, the jumbled mind, boats missed, inspiring movie and meeting, ink spiraling into water, hitting my stride for this phase of this book – it’s alchemy, sometimes. All I know to say right now is that yes, sometimes we will miss the boat. Yes, sometimes life will knock us down. Yes, sometimes it will then kick us in the gut (guys, feel free to substitute “n” for “g” before the “ut”) but this is when I haul out my favorite Japanese proverb: fall down five times, get up six.

Get up. As soon as you can, get up. Take a rest if you need it, and ask for help up if you need that, but get up. Pick up the pen. Sit down at the keyboard. Put something on the page or the screen. Because there will be another boat. If it doesn’t come to the dock, swim out to it. Do it tired. Do it scared. Do it hurt. Do it confused. Do it uninspired. Do it, and the rest will come.

Typing With Wet Claws: Not a Doggie Edition

February 12, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

Hello, all. Skye here, for another Feline Friday. Since Anty says I have to talk about her writing first, I will do that before we do anything else. This week, Anty recapped an interesting episode of Sleepy Hollow. It was all about Ichabod looking for Abbie, who is someplace else. This was different for Anty, because it was all about the feelings, even though one of the people was not really in the episode at all. It is here and looks like this:

Anty had a really good writing day yesterday, and hopes that continues today. She has two more articles to write for Heroes and Heartbreakers, and they are about books, not TV shows this time. Anty is very excited to write more about books

She would also like to be reading a lot more books, but life has had other ideas. That is okay, because the library will still have those books, even if Anty has to give them back for a little while. This week has been a mixed bag for Anty, which means that she could probably use some time dedicated purely to amusement. Usually, that is a good thing, but, yesterday evening, she found a site called what-dog.net, and then she did this:

Anty, that is not funny. I am a kitty, not a doggie. I am a very smart girl, though. It took me less than three days to learn my name, I have a big vocabulary (that means I know a lot of words) and I can follow hand signals. Although my favorite toy is paper (and I need to re-learn how to play every once in a while) sometimes, I get my own toys, that are not really toys. If you see some of Mama’s yarn where it is not supposed to be, that was probably me. I like to watch my people, and sometimes TV. I would watch out the windows, but they are all very high, and I am a floor girl who does not like being picked up, so I can only see outside if I look up. I do not bark, but I do talk. I make chirpy sounds and trills and I chitter when I see birdies, or my humans take too long in getting my food ready.

Well, Anty is not the only one who can use that website. I can use it, too.

I do not think Anty will be angry with me. First, I am cute. Second, I love her. Third, they are not wrong. Anty does like to talk, a lot. She talks to me all the time, which is how I learned how I could make sounds, too. As for the herding others part, Anty tells me that the term I mean is that she has leadership skills. “Bossy” is not a nice word, though being the boss can be a good thing, and doing a thing like a boss is also good. Stephen “tWitch” Boss is a very good dancer. Anty says that if she can write as well as he can dance, then she would be very happy. So, I do not see where “bossy” is a bad word.

Being independent-minded can also be a very good thing. Some people say “stubborn.” (Anty and Uncle saw a cooking show on TV once, set in Norway, where there was a motorcycle gang whose name translated to “Stubborn.” They thought that was funny.) Anyway, thinking for oneself can be a tricky thing sometimes, but a useful tool for those who want to write. It’s easy to get caught up in “should” and expectations, but thinking differently is a big part of making new things. It also helped Anty think that being called a collie was funny, and not bad. I do not think collies are bad. Bailey is very nice and he is a pretty boy. Maybe Anty really is part collie, and they are related? Anty is adopted, so we cannot say that she is not. Hm. This could explain some things.

Anty tells me that people cannot be part doggie (except in some stories, but that is only make-believe) so that means she is not related to Bailey. I can only imagine how she must be taking that news. Apparently well (though it is disappointing) because she is getting ready to start her writing session for the day, so that is about it for this week. Until next time, I remain very truly yours,

Until next week…

Skye O’Malley Hart-Bowling
(the kitty, not the book)

What Do You Want Right Now?

February 11, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

I started this blog entry multiple times, with multiple approaches, and none of them worked, though all of them were true. This morning had an exceptionally good three-hour writing stretch, when Hero and Heroine met me for breakfast, and we chatted, the three of us, at the kitchen counter, me perched on my stool, pen in one hand and phone with Pinterest board open in the other. Spotify playlist played through my earbuds, but it was their voices I heard, their heads poking over my shoulder, real and alive and chomping at the bit.

Surprised the heck out of me, that flow hitting when it did, but, when I came up for air three hours later, the pages filled with my chicken scratch going every which way (writing otherwise than with the subtly printed lines of a Paperblanks book? Shock horror!) and littered with pink and blue Post-Its, there was a good chunk of story in bullet point draft. No angsting, no agonizing, merely story.

How did that happen? I can’t point to one thing, but I will put a highlight on two things. Okay, three, as discussions with critique partners always jog some sticky stuff loose, though that ties directly into the two things:

What does (character) want right now?
Make a decision.

Super easy, those two. Instead of angsting about everything, take a step back and observe. Character X was doing one thing. Then they were done doing that thing. What thing did they do next? Odds are, they’re going to fulfill a want. In the first scene in question for me today, Heroine wanted Hero to not die in her study. To have him not die in her study, that meant he had to 1) stay alive, and 2) not be in her study. Both easily accomplished by getting Hero out of her study.

Okay, cross the threshold, and he’s technically out. Where to put him, though? Well, what rooms are available? Can’t get lost in too many options (one of my biggest bugaboos) if there is only one option. So, we have only Room Y? Put him there.

POV shifts to Hero, once he is in room Y. So, he’s there. Now, what does he want, right now? When in doubt, refer to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Since Hero is soaked to the bone wet and freezing, a pretty safe bet is that he wants a) out of those wet clothes, and b) to be warm. Remove wet clothes, wrap in blanket and wait for hot water to be brought up to him. Eighteenth century here, so it’s going to be a while. What does he want next? This particular hero is an artist, and he had his things with him, so check on the inks, check on the pens, check on the papers that are not drying in Heroine’s study. Phew, that thing is okay. Drat, that one isn’t. Can’t…find…the…other…thing. Calm down, it’s probably drying out downstairs. Etcetera and so on.

The movie in my head flitted between Hero’s scenes and Heroine’s, inserted the right servant who can tell Hero the thing he needs to know but can’t see. Hero has some feelings about this new information, and feelings about those feelings, Heroine sees something she wasn’t supposed to see, and has some feelings about that. Each learns something new about the other, and want to know more about that, but Mutual Friend Character, you ruin everything. (He really does.)

I learned things, like how Hero -an artist, duh- thinks better when doodling, a perfectly natural way to insert Heroine’s predilection for firearms, and how to get Hero and Mutual Friend Character to a place where Hero does something good (but not good enough, though he’s working on that) and Mutual Friend Character does something dumb that will bite him in the behind later in the story.

Three hours later, I set the pen down. Did a wee bit of notebook hacking (need to do a wee bit more, at that) and jotted a couple of notes so I’d know where I left off when I came back to this, which I promised myself -and Hero and Heroine- (Mutual Friend Character can go suck rocks because he is being a doodyhead here) would be as soon as humanly possible. There’s a little ache to leaving the characters when it’s time to take care of other things, but we do not have a self feeding cat, and domestic management skills were in demand, and I am the designated domestic warrior queen, so had to take a break there.

Even so, the movie in my head kept playing. Totally random life advice, not based off anything that ever happened to me, especially not today, no matter how good the book thing is that you just that second figured out while plunging the bathroom bowl, do not raise the plunger above your head in victory. It cannot end well. Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do.

I’m not saying the rest of the book is going to be the writing equivalent of skipping barefoot through a field of daisies (I’d probably step in cow poop or something, anyway) but those two bits above are a good place to start. What does my character want, right now? Make a decision. Maybe it’s the wrong decision, but that’s what first drafts are for, innit? (See? Dialect. That was a decision.) If it doesn’t work, then do something else.

I suggest locking hypercritical gremlins in a closet. I think Hero and Heroine might have done that for me while I was rooting around the pantry for tea.

Strange Bedfellows

February 9, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

I’m sitting in my second coffee house of the day, volume on my headphones cranked up to maximum, to block out sound around me. This morning, I walked through a snow-covered park, and met with N, to set long and short term goals for our work. I love these once a week meetings, and have taken to staying after N leaves, to get some extra time in, working on the book or free writing, to dump junk out of my brain. The bottomless tea doesn’t hurt, either, even if there wasn’t any caffeinated tea on hand, period, today.

At the moment, I’m listening to a mix of songs from Hedwig and the Angry Inch and Hamilton. There’s some connection there, beyond the fact that I listened to both original cast albums on the same day. My mind does that sometimes, marries things to each other, even when I don’t know why it’s doing that. Sometimes, I find out later, and sometimes, I still don’t know, several years down the line.

If I had to guess right now, I would say it’s strong storytelling, standout characters, and really good music. Super talented casts don’t hurt, either. An East German glam rocker with identity issues and one of the founding fathers may not have much in common on the surface, but beneath that, there is something that connects the two. My brain doesn’t see all that much difference between the birth of a nation and a would-have-been-empty Broadway theater that spans from a divided Germany to a trailer park in Kansas, because it’s more than that. The emotional connection is there in each, raw and visceral, and real.

Neither central character is perfect, each caught up in circumstances beyond their own making. Neither ending can be strictly classified as “happy.” Hamilton dies. Hedwig is…no longer Hedwig, though I think that is a conscious choice. Both suffer devastating losses. Hedwig, born Hansel, loses her identity more than once, on top of being an internationally ignored song stylist (her own words.) Alexander Hamilton, well, history fills us in on most of those particulars, but for the sake of moving things along here, let’s focus on the sex scandal that did things to not only his political career, but his marriage to his beloved Eliza, not to mention losing their son, Philip, in a duel. In the end, Hedwig strips down from her over the top attire and walks out of the theater. Hamilton’s legacy lives on, and I am not ashamed to admit I tear up every danged time Eliza sings about the orphanage, doing what she can for children who are where her beloved Alexander once was.

With both shows, it’s easy to climb inside the title character’s skin and see the world from their eyes. For Hedwig, there’s always that lost little kid beneath all the glamour, the yearning for something great, even despite being beaten down, used, abandoned. I think Alexander Hamilton would have understood a lot of that. Poor romantic choices? Both shows have that covered. Hedwig has a series of poor romantic choices, Alexander only one impulsive one, that we’re shown his attempts to resist, but, as Hedwig would likely understand, even the great ones fall. We’re none of us perfect, and it’s in those imperfections where the stories grow.

If a character already has what they want, there’s no story there. Both Hedwig and Alexander want freedom, purpose, and love. Alexander’s Eliza loves him to his death and beyond, while Hedwig has three dysfunctional relationships that end badly, and departs the stage, alone. I’ve read that, in the movie version, Hedwig’s exit is au naturel. On Broadway, there is an undergarment. Hamilton has a huge, diverse cast, and pretty much everybody gets to sing (and rap,) while in Hedwig, the music is almost entirely Hedwig, except that one song where she’s Tommy. Which pretty much fits Hedwig. It’s her world, and we’re only living in it for a little while. From a certain point of view, so is she.

Even though neither show can be classed as a romance, my romance writer brain inhaled both of these soundtracks, and there’s something churning. What? Not a clue, but I’ll know what I need to know, when I need to know it. That’s generally how it works. Still working out what I’m getting from each of these, and both together. My brain ties them both to Rent, which isn’t an entirely unrelated connection, as an original concept was to perform the Broadway revival of Hedwig on Rent‘s closed set. That didn’t happen, and a fictional musical version of The Hurt Locker, which Hedwig tells us closed during intermission, provides Hedwig’s venue instead. Rent takes place in New York, which would have been the capitol of the country Alexander Hamilton helped to build, so there’s that, and it’s a modern-day retelling of La Vie Boheme, which gives both historical and contemporary vibes, which combine to make something entirely new.

In all three cases, there’s an indefinable thing. I want that thing. To create characters like that, give that level of emotional investment and connection to my readers, that’s the goal. Since I write romance, my people are alive and together at the end, but before then, throwing the unimaginable at them and seeing how they get through, how that changes them into who they need to be, seems to be the order of the day.

This is What You Get

February 4, 2016annabowling 2 Comments

Originally, I’d meant to bang out a quick video blog and get on with my day. The fact that you’re reading this is proof that didn’t happen. Well, the video part happened. Over twenty takes, as a matter of fact, ranging from eight seconds to six minutes, but each one ended with me scowling at the screen, muttering some variation of “I’m not doing this” and hitting the button to stop the recording. A few roundsI don’t think you missed much. Skye insisted on staying out of camera range, no matter how I tried to entice her to join me, and, no matter the list I’d made on what topics to cover with my blather, my brain went blank. Took me a while to get the message that this was not a video blog day, but I finally did.

No typical shot of my workspace, either, because I left my phone on the kitchen counter when I left the house, despite my reminder to not repeat yesterday’s blunder of not bringing the computer cord, which was why there was no entry yesterday. I did bring the cord today, so there’s that. As to what this entry will actually contain, at the moment, I have no idea.

This is what my workspace sees.

There are days when I start out with the best of intentions, to-do list made, and then – wham. I hit the wall. Some days, that’s earlier than others. Is this one of them? I’d like to think I would know something like that by now, but I can’t say one way or the other. What I can say is that I am doing the most essential thing; I am showing up for the writing. There will be a blog entry today. I will write my Buried Under Romance post for Saturday. I will work on Her Last First Kiss. I will probably have to hit the supermarket afterwards, because :shifty eyes: aliens broke into our freezer and ate the last of the strawberry ice cream while I was doing take elebenty bajillion of the video blog, but that is not an entirely bad thing. I can listen to selections from Hamilton and Hedwig on my walk, which definitely counts as creative well-filling.

Here’s the deal I made with myself today: I babble here for about seven hundred words, minimum, and whatever I have at the end of that is what goes up. Then on to the Buried Under Romance entry and I get a break. Novel work may happen in longhand, because I will likely have had enough of the screen by that time, but it does have to happen. Not sure, at this point, if I’m going move all my novel stuff to a new Scrivener document or ruthlessly slash the one I have down to the bare bones, but things are going to get moving. I am sick to death of not having a new book out, and there is only one way to fix that particular problem. I have to write the book.

That’s scary. That’s daunting. What if I get it wrong? Who’s reading me anyway? Not Regency, not series, not wallpaper, no dukes, no wallflowers, so does that mean no readers? Eh, possibly. It’s entirely possible that nobody will read any given book. It’s also true that I don’t have to please every reader; only my readers. :beat: Both of them. Okay, all three. Realistically, it’s probably more than that, but I am in the midst of one end of year earning statement funk. This is a competitive game, and these are older titles I have out. In publishing terms, I’m basically starting from scratch, which can be exciting in its own way, but right now, it’s aggravating.

I’m motivated, though. Common wisdom has it that one needs five books to break out and get attention. Five books is also one of the milestones CRRWA has for recognizing notable achievements by members, and nets said member a padfolio as a reward. I am enough of a stationery junkie to need that padfolio. Sell or publish a book merely to get stationery? Challenge accepted! We all have our motivations. Mine happens to smell like paper.

Monday Morning Coming Down

February 1, 2016annabowling Leave a comment

“The really good idea is always traceable back quite a long way, often to a not very good idea which sparked off another idea that was only slightly better, which somebody else misunderstood in such a way that they then said something which was really rather interesting.”
–John Cleese

No idea what to blog about today, but I’ve hit that point on my to do list, this is the time I have for blogging, so I am going to jump in and ramble. No plan, no agenda, merely brain droppings, which will hopefully stave off the hypercritical gremilns.

NOPE, WE’RE STILL HERE!

Le sigh. Okay, well, at least I’m not alone, then. Hi, guys.

WE READ YOUR YEARLY EARNING STATEMENTS. OLD NAVY IS HIRING.

We’ve talked about that.

ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU SUCK? WE HAD TO GET A MICROSCOPE OUT TO READ SOME OF THOSE NUMBERS. WHICH IS PROBABLY THE MOST YOU’VE BEEN READ IN A WHILE.

That’s not what we’re talking about here.

YES, IT IS. IF YOU WERE ANY GOOD, YOU’D BE RAKING IN THE DOUGH, HAVE YOUR COVERS PLASTERED ALL OVER SOCIAL MEDIA, AND OUTSELL HARRY POTTER.

Harry Potter is YA fantasy. I write historical romance. That’s not even the same genre.

OK, TWILIGHT, THEN. WE ALSO READ THE START OF YOUR VAMPIRE STORY. GOOD CALL TRASHING THAT ONE.

This is the one time I am going to agree with you.

YOU AGREE THAT YOU SUCK? WE RULE! WOO HOO!

No, I agree that the vampire story wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. It also had nothing to do with Twilight.

OH REALLY? VAMPIRE YA ROMANCE IS HOT. IT SELLS. TWILIGHT IS THE ONLY ROMANCE NOVEL A BUNCH OF PEOPLE KNOW. YOU WRITE ROMANCE? LIKE TWILIGHT?

Really. I don’t think my books are like Twilight, but I’ve never read it, so I really can’t say. Why are we talking about Twilight, anyway?

YOU’D RATHER TALK ABOUT HARRY POTTER?

No.

DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY PEOPLE CAN ONLY NAME THOSE TWO BOOKS WHEN ASKED TO NAME NOVELS?

:sigh: Sadly, yes, but that’s not my problem.

DON’T WORRY…UH, NO, DO. YOU HAVE LOTS MORE PROBLEMS. DO YOU WANT THEM ALPHABETIACLLY, CHRONOLOGICALLY, OR IN THE ORDER THE BAILIFF READS THE CHARGES?

:stares crossly over rims of glasses: I am not facing any charges.

FROM US, YOU ARE. YOU’RE A NOBODY, YOU HAVEN’T HAD A NEW RELEASE IN A LONG TIME, YOU’VE MISCARRIED ENOUGH STORIES WE CAN COUNT ON BOTH HANDS, AND YOU COULDN’T EVEN THINK OF SOMETHING TO BLOG ABOUT TODAY.

But I’m blogging right now.

YOU MEAN WE’RE BLOGGING RIGHT NOW. INCLUSIVE WE.

Still counts.

HMPH. FINE. WE’LL GIVE YOU THAT ONE. THIS MEANS WE’RE EVEN. UH, WAIT, EVEN IS NOT GOOD. WE HAVE TO BRING UP SOME DEEP SEATED INSECURITIES. CAN WE HAVE A MINUTE?

Sure. :sorts Post-Its collection:

OKAY, OKAY, WE HAVE SOMETHING. YOU MADE YOUR GOAL LIST FOR THE MEETING WITH N AT THE MEETING WITH N, AND YOU’RE PLANNING ON DOING ALL THAT WORK TODAY.

That is correct.

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT. JUST SO YOU KNOW, WE’RE BETTING AGAINST YOU.

Okay. You do you. I have some outlining to do, and then take a crack at a scene.

YOU’VE TAKEN SEVERAL CRACKS AT THAT SCENE.

Getting closer to the right version every time.

SUUUURE. IT’S A WELL KNOWN FACT THAT REAL WRITERS BANG OUT THE ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT IN ONE GO, OR AT LEAST SEVERAL THOUSAND WORDS PER DAY -AND COUNTING THOSE WORD IS SUPER IMPORTANT- AND IF YOU DON’T DO EITHER OF THOSE THINGS, YOU HAVE FAILED FOREVER.

Um, I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.

SAYS WHO?

Experience, for one thing. Romance Writers of America, for another, and any number of writer friends. Everybody has their own method, and their own journey. Finding out what doesn’t work is as much a part of that as typing The End.

WHAT PART IS LISTENING TO BROADWAY SHOW TUNES?

That’s part of the magpie stage.

MAGPIE STAGE? WHAT IS THAT? THE LEAST SUCCESSFUL FORM OF TRANSPORTATION IN THE OLD WEST? BY THE WAY, YOU’VE NEVER WRITTEN A WESTERN.

That’s not by accident, and to answer your question about the magpie stage, that’s when I gather shiny things that catch my attention and dump them all in my creative pot, to make idea soup.

WHICH PART OF YOUR HISTORICAL ROMANCE NOVEL INVOLVES EAST GERMAN GLAM ROCKERS WITH IDENTITY ISSUES AND PHILANDERING AMERICAN POLITICIANS?

No East Germans or Americans in this book, but I do touch on issues of identity, the difference between what’s seen on the surface and exists beneath, and lots of romantic complications. Inspiration comes in a lot of forms, and it’s a writer’s job to dig for the gems. Sometimes, it’s a tiny glimmer from here, an interesting idea from there, flip a concept or two, mix with everything the writer has ever experienced in their own life, and it all turns into something entirely new. It’s an ongoing process.

WE HAVE SEEN YOU CHAIR DANCING.

I have never denied chair dancing.

YOU’VE NEVER SEEN YOURSELF CHAIR DANCING, EITHER. ALSO, ARE YOU EVEN PUTTING ON MAKEUP TODAY? LOOKING KIND OF PALE THERE.

That’s because I am pale. I’ve been pale my whole life. What’s your point?

THAT YOU ARE A PALE IMITATION OF WHAT YOU WANT TO BE. JUST SAYING.

So, I’m supposed to do what, give up because I’m not at my ultimate goal right this very second?

BY JOVE, WE THINK SHE’S GOT IT. BY THAT, WE MEAN OUR POINT, NOT, YOU KNOW, TALENT OR DEDICATION OR DRIVE OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT.

Well, look at that, we’ve come to the end of time we have for this entry today. I’m opening my file.

BUT WE’RE NOT DONE YET. UNLIKE YOUR CAREER.

:opens file:

:puts in headphones:

:turns to fresh page, uncaps pen:

I can’t hear you gremlins over the sound of my writing. Later.

Typing With Wet Nails

for the love of romance

possibly pointless blabbering